When I think about myself,
I almost laugh myself to death,
My life has been one great big jok
A dance that’s walked
A song that’s spoke,

The river
Of my childhood,
That tumbled
Down a passage of rocks
And cut-work ferns,

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?
Six days of the week it soils

Happy ye leaves when as those lill
Which hold my life in their dead d
Shall handle you and hold in loves
Lyke captives trembling at the vic
And happy lines, on which with sta

My son, my executioner,
I take you in my arms,
Quiet and small and just astir
And whom my body warms.
Sweet death, small son, our instru

There are similarities
I notice: that the hills
which the eyes make flat as a wall
together, open as I move
to let me through; become

Let me tell you a little story
About Miss Edith Gee;
She lived in Clevedon Terrace
At number 83.
She’d a slight squint in her left

To step over the low wall that div
Road from concrete walk above the
Brings sharply back something know
The miniature gaiety of seasides.
Everything crowds under the low ho

He stunk of old stale cigarettes a

Don’t call this world adorable, or
It’s frisky, and a theater for mor
The eyelash of lightning is neithe
The struck tree burns like a pilla
But the blue rain sinks, straight

WHAT guile is this, that those h
She doth attire under a net of gol
And with sly skill so cunningly th
That which is gold, or hair, may s
Is it that men’s frail eyes, which